


Dining In

by Fyre



Series: Hunger [4]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Home, Love, Trust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-06
Updated: 2019-07-06
Packaged: 2020-06-23 14:56:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19703701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fyre/pseuds/Fyre
Summary: It’s not the bookshop and it’s not Crowley’s austere flat, but this new place istheirsand it’s home.





	Dining In

The winds from the south have brought the rains in from the sea.

The patter against the glass makes Aziraphale glance up from his tea and he smiles. It’s foolish – sentimental even – but every rainfall puts him in mind of another day. The first day that really mattered, in fact. And the first rain too.

He puts his cup down in the saucer on the coffee table and sits, watching as the clouds roil and curl across the sky and the wind whips at the little trees they have planted in the back garden. He doesn’t know which of them laughed more when they planted the apple tree right in the middle of it.

It’s not the bookshop and it’s not Crowley’s austere flat, but this new place is _theirs_ and it’s home.

Technically, it was listed as a cottage, but someone had taken that cottage and the attached stone barn and stable and expanded the living area substantially. There’s enough room for Crowley’s beloved Bentley in the former stables. There’s more than enough room in the former barn for Aziraphale’s ever-growing collection of books and tomes.

And in the house itself, Crowley’s desk takes up part of the living room with his throne tucked neatly behind it. They still have their uses, even if most of them involve Crowley draping himself indolently on the surface of the desk and sighing dramatically when he feels Aziraphale isn’t paying enough attention to him.

It delights Aziraphale more than he can say to know that Crowley is willing to ask now, instead of simply watching and waiting.

And the room is big enough for the throne to take the centre of the floor when required. Which, of course, it is from time to time. Bands of silk hang perpetually over the back, just in case they happen to be needed. Even now, there are faded stripes at Aziraphale’s wrists that he has stubbornly kept from healing entirely.

Of course, Crowley had stammered and stuttered in shock when he noticed them, before realising exactly why they were still there, which made him stammer and stutter again, only with a blush as flavour.

A gust of air from the hall makes Aziraphale turn.

Crowley stalks in, shaking water from his coat. “It,” he declares, pulling off his glasses and tossing them on the table beside the door, “is pissing down out there.” A snap of his fingers dries out his soaked clothes and tightly-braided hair. “Looks like our beach walk is rained off.”

“I thought it might be,” Aziraphale says, closing over the book in his lap. He pats the couch beside him. “Will you join me?”

Crowley tilts his head, those glorious golden eyes of his studying Aziraphale speculatively. He’s been growing more confident since they move here, Aziraphale has noticed. More confident in his desires. More confident in giving them voice.

Instead of approaching or saying anything, he reaches up and draws his braid over his shoulder. It’s long enough to reach his waist now and Aziraphale’s stomach does a pleasant little flip as Crowley pulls the band from the end, then slowly, tantaslisingly slowly, starts to unravel the braid, carding his finger through it ever few inches, as a rope becomes a wave of dark red curls.

“Oh,” Aziraphale manages, forcing his eyes back to Crowley’s. “You’re in that kind of mood.”

The demon’s lips twitch. “Mm.” He pushes his loose hair back over his shoulder, shaking his head to let it cascade down. Aziraphale’s tongue darts along his lower lip and Crowley’s mouth turns in a smirk. “You too, from the looks of it.” He shrugs out of his jacket, tossing it onto his desk, then flashes his teeth at Aziraphale. “But then it doesn’t take much with you, does it?” He raises an eyebrow. “Mind your book, angel.”

Aziraphale looks down, startled. The solid leather binding is buckling under the pressure from his fingers. “Oh, damn it!”

Crowley laughs, so freely now too. “C’mon, angel,” he says, smiling. He’s undoing the buttons of his shirt and as Aziraphale gets ups from the couch, he shrugs that off too, adding it to the jacket. And then – oh Lord have mercy – he gives a small shudder and black wings fill the space around him.

“Oh…” Aziraphale breathes, stopping in his tracks.

Crowley ducks his head with a smile that it almost bashful in its sweetness. He closes the space between them in three steps and reaches down to take Aziraphale’s hand. “C’mon, angel,” he says again.

Aziraphale squeezes his fingers. “What do you have in mind?”

“Thought we could see how well you do with feathers, seeing as you’re so ticklish.”

If he had knocked the wind from him, he couldn’t have surprised the angel more. Aziraphale glances at those beautiful broad wings, wings he has only recently dared to start touching. And he knows, oh how well he knows, how he’ll react if touched by them. “You may need– that is I might– some kind of restra…”

Crowley’s eyes dance and he lifts his other hand, a delicate pair of golden bracelets – linked by a fine gold chain – hanging from his fingertips. “Thought we could try these.”

Aziraphale’s heart stutters at the sight of them. They’re so fragile, too fragile to be any real impediment. Oh, Crowley does so love to test his restraint with such delicate beautiful things. “Oh? Where?”

There’s a coy wickedness in Crowley’s smile and he tugs Aziraphale towards the bedroom they now share. “Got the four-poster for a reason, angel,” he says, glancing over his shoulder, his hair gleaming like firelight between the shadows of his wings, guiding Aziraphale’s way.

The four-poster. An unnecessary indulgence, he had thought at the time. But then Crowley covered it with Egyptian cotton sheets, hung heavy velvet drapes drawn back with long – and useful – tasselled cords, and on cold nights, added a thick tartan blanket. All at once, the idea of lying in a bed – sleeping in a bed – doing _anything_ in a bed seemed far more appealing than it ever had.

And to bring a pair of paper-thin cuffs into it…

The room feels too warm all at once and Aziraphale reaches for his own clothing with his other hand, brushing the velvet of his waistcoat and the ornate mother-of-pearl buttons. It takes more effort than he cares to admit to twist them undone. “I see,” he says through a throat thickened with need.

Crowley pauses at the door of the bedroom, turning to look at him. “I just realised something,” he says and Aziraphale knows that stupid gleam in his eye and braces himself as Crowley grins from ear to ear. “I’m leading you into temptation!”

The angel half-laughs, half groans, pulling Crowley’s hand up to kiss his knuckles. “My dearest boy,” he says, happier than he could ever have imagined being. “I was already there.”

And when Crowley smiles at him and leads him into their bedroom, the rest of the world just falls away.

**Author's Note:**

> ~~And we're finished :) I hope you enjoyed the boys and their escapades.~~
> 
> And we were finished, but the boys are stubborn and I am weak, and so this is no longer the epilogue and has been renamed to reflect this.


End file.
